


The Missing Moments

by KassandraScarlett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Fluff, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassandraScarlett/pseuds/KassandraScarlett
Summary: Another set of codas, I guess, but without rhyme or reason, not necessarily interconnected.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	1. The Words That Hurt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tells Sam about Cas' confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: Not canon compliant after 15x18, angst, emotional h/c, established Sam/Dean, unrequited Cas/Dean, canonical character death.

Dean wasn't sure how long he sat there, back to the wall and head in his hands. At some point, the sobs had petered out, leaving a cold sense of shock and  _ This can't be happening _ running through his head on a loop. 

The phone didn't ring more than once. A tiny part of Dean screamed at him to pick it up, to call Sam back and let him know what happened. 

But the rest of him- the part of him that had wanted to sacrifice Jack, had pulled a gun on his brother, had watched helplessly as their best friend got snatched up by a dollar store Venom for the fault of confessing a love- was just too tired to do anything more than sit and wallow. He didn't have the energy to hear Sam tell him about who else they'd lost. 

There was the sudden sound of doors clanging shut and a voice yelling his name. 

"Dean! Dean? Cas?" The voice was injected with rising panic. "Dean!"

Dean stayed where he was, not moving. Then there were hands on him, one gripping his shoulder and the other forcing his head up. 

"Dean," Sam breathed in relief. Then pain took over. "I've been trying to call- why didn't you- why would- everyone is-" His words tapered off, eyes slipping close. He took a few deep breaths. "Are you hurt?" He asked in a whisper. 

Dean needed a few seconds to register the question. "No." His lips felt dry. 

Sam cupped his face gingerly, checking for injuries. There weren't any. "What happened with Billie?" He asked.

Dean tilted his head back, hitting the wall. "Dead."

"Dead. How- but everyone is gone. Everyone- not just the Apocalypse World hunters. Donna… I called Jody and Garth too, but… The whole world…"

"Not Billie," Dean said, voice a croak. "Chuck."

Sam shook his head. "But then… How did you kill Billie? The scythe?"

Dean turned his head slightly. The wall that Cas had disappeared into looked perfectly innocuous. "The Empty."

"The Empty?" Sam frowned. "How did you summon it?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer.  _ Cas offered himself up. He was happy. He died to save me. He told me he… _

None of the words made it past his lips. 

"Oh."

The soft sound had them both looking to Jack. The kid was suddenly paler than normal, gripping the door frame with whitened knuckles.

"What is it?" Sam asked, voice hard and urgent like it never got with Jack. 

Jack looked ready to collapse. "Sam, I… Cas was…" He took a shuddering breath. "Back when I died the first time… Cas made a deal with the Empty to save my life."

Sam blinked, looked around the room, as if searching for a way to refute the fact that was staring him on the face. His gaze landed on Dean, on the bloody handprint left behind on his jacket. 

Dean stared at the floor again. 

"What was the deal?" Sam asked in a whisper. 

"That he'd die the moment he was truly happy."

Dean tuned everything out after that damned word.

* * *

He must have blacked out or something, because the next thing he knew, he was slumped back in a chair in the library and Sam was kneeling in front of him, gently shaking him.

He looked around, trying to straighten. His jacket was on the table behind Sam, neatly folded so Cas’ handprint was out of sight. Eileen’s phone was right next to it. In his mind’s eye, he could see the home screen picture: Sam, with that bemused smile at the camera, half-turned towards a book.

He looked back at his brother. Sam looked terrible and worry overcame Dean’s exhaustion for a moment. He reached out to touch the edge of Sam’s jaw. “Sammy?”

Haunted eyes blinked back in slow motion, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay-”

“Don’t!” Dean’s voice was suddenly trembling with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare pretend you’re alright. I can’t-” His voice broke. The fury left and he slumped back. “Please just tell the truth.”

Sam looked away for a long moment. “Jack is in his room. Asleep. Cried himself out, really. I couldn’t- I didn’t know what to say to him.” He swallowed. “He kept saying it shouldn’t be possible because Cas wasn’t happy- how could he be, in this situation?” He closed his eyes, letting go of Dean to rub his temple. “He’s gotten so used to me usually having the answers, just like all those hunters- they believed me, believed that I’d save them and…” He trailed off.

Dean stared at him- Sam stared back. No silent communication, or pleading puppy eyes, eye-rolls or secret amusement. Just a blank acknowledgement that they were completely and utterly defeated.

Sam slouched further, shifting until his forehead was pressed to Dean’s knee. After a few seconds, Dean realized he was stroking his fingers through Sam’s hair. The motion was soothing, comforting to both of them. Unwittingly, he thought of Cas’ healing hand, cold Grace accompanied by the warmth of his skin.

All those times, all these years- how had he never noticed? How had no one ever told him-

“Did you know?” The words were out before he could stop them.

“About what?” Sam’s voice was muffled.

“About Cas.”

There was a pause, then Sam looked up, chin digging painfully. “What, his deal? No, Dean. If I had-”

“Not that.” Dean wondered if there was a way to completely erase Cas’ words from his mind. “Cas… He said something to me.”

“What was it?" Sam asked. 

"That… That being happy… It wasn't just about having something…" He knew he wasn't explaining it right, the words getting mixed up and lost. 

But something in Sam's face changed, becoming closed off. He looked away fast, but Dean’s suspicions were already confirmed. “Sam? Did you know?”

Sam closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Kind of,” he said quietly. “I suspected.”

Dean felt like crying all over again. “Why didn’t you-you couldn’t have said something to me?”

“I wasn’t sure, Dean,” Sam protested timidly, looking up through his lashes. “Hell, I thought he’d come out and say it one day, but he never did and… A part of me thought maybe I was wrong. Or maybe he was over it…”

Dean swallowed, tilting his head back to blink up at the ceiling. “You should have told me,” he insisted. “You… If you’d known for sure, would you have told me?”

He could feel Sam shake his head. “I know how it feels,” he murmured. “Almost. I know how it feels to… I would never have wanted someone to tell you how I felt before I could tell you myself. Taking that choice away from Cas…” He took a shuddering breath, like saying the name was painful. “That would have been unfair, And cruel.”

Dean looked back down at him. “Why would he have said that?” He asked, voice cracking.

“Because it was the only way to save your life. Because he meant it.”

“Why, Sam?”

Sam actually laughed; a wet chuckle that was full of tears. “Because you’re you. Because, no matter what you believe, you are so damn easy to love, Dean. And he loved you.”

“Yeah, and look where that got him!” Dean snapped. He closed his own eyes, as Sam sat up on his haunches, cupping Dean’s face. “Why are you being so understanding about this?” He asked, almost begging. “Why are you so calm, why aren’t you more-?”

“Upset?” Sam interrupted. “Jealous, angry, hurt?” He sighed. “He saved you, Dean. I owe him my life for that.”

Dean took a deep breath. Sam was close enough that he could smell the mingling scent of sweat and shampoo. But he couldn’t look at him just yet.

Sam sighed, drawing him into a loose hug. “Dean,” he breathed out. “I-”

“Don’t!” The words left Dean in a sharp, harsh tone. “Don’t say that. Don’t say that to me, I can’t-” His words choked off and he tightened his own hold on Sam.  _ I can’t lose you too. _

Sam drew back a few inches, eyes sharp through the tears, fixed on Dean with a stern look. “Don’t punish yourself for his feelings,” he said firmly. “He loved you- it was his choice and you don’t get to blame yourself for that.”

“Sammy…”

Sam leaned forward, kissing him, soft and sweet. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you and… And I’m right here. I’m right here, Dean, not leaving you. Not now.”

_ Not yet, _ a dark little voice cackled in Dean’s head. He shuddered, tasting salt on his tongue, and wondered if it was his own tears or Sam’s.


	2. Sorry I Broke Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets Cas in Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: Coda to 15x20, mild h/c, unrequited Cas/Dean, implied Sam/Dean.

Dean didn't plan on taking a break from driving. Not until Sam arrived. Unfortunately, no one seemed to take that into consideration. 

Because the second he took his eyes off the road to fiddle with the radio, a figure appeared in the corner of his eye. 

Dean pressed down on the brakes, Baby screeching painfully. With a sharp exhale, he opened his mouth to yell at the idiot standing in the middle of the Heavenly Highway. 

The words died on his tongue when he realized who it was. He got out of the car slowly, gingerly. 

"Cas?" He called, tentative.

The angel tilted his head at him with a warm gaze. "Hello, Dean."

Dean swallowed. "You're… Okay." It sounded stupid out loud, because Bobby had told him that Jack pulled Cas out of the Empty. 

"Yes, I am," Cas agreed. He snapped his fingers. "I hope you don't mind."

Dean looked around, startling a little at the change in scenery; instead of the gravel road, they were now in a park. The Impala was parked amongst a few trees. 

Dean shrugged and followed Cas to the bench. They sat there quietly, looking at the children playing. Children who'd died young, Dean realized. And maybe childless parents who'd taken it upon themselves to care for them. Or maybe whole families that had somehow perished together. 

Eventually, Dean ventured a glance at Cas. "You look good," he offered, for lack of anything else to say. "More yourself. Content, I guess."

Cas nodded. "Thank you. Jack restored me to full power when he brought me and Meg back. He gave me back my wings as well." His eyes were gently closed, head tilted up towards the sky, and he almost looked like he used to when Dean had first met him- powerful, serene, and angelically composed. "It does make it easier to visit Meg in her dreams, I admit, since neither of us can visit earth without a proper summoning."

Dean frowned. "Meg is out too? Demons can dream?"

Cas turned to look at him. "Dean," he said gently. "Ask me what you want to ask."

Dean looked away. There's nothing I wanna ask," he muttered after a second of thought. "In fact, I used to think I'd want to yell at you, actually, for what you did."

Cas frowned. "But you don't want to anymore?"

Dean shrugged again. "It'd be a hell of a double standard."

There was a pause, then both of them chuckled. 

"But I am sorry, Cas." Dean sighed, somber now. "I'm sorry, that I never realized, that I… I'm sorry if I ever led you on, man. I never-" He cut himself off, shaking his head for lack of anything to say.

Cas was silent for a few moments. "It was never your fault, though," he mused. "You can't be sorry for who you are. Or for my choices."

Dean huffed, amused and fond. "Sam said the exact same thing."

"Your brother has always had a knack for understanding people," Cas agreed. "So, I'm not surprised."

Dean nodded, knowing he was right. 

Cas narrowed his eyes slightly, electric gaze sweeping over Dean's form. "For a man in Paradise," he said dryly. "You don't seem nearly as content as you should."

Dean snorted, throwing a testy look towards his friend. 

Cas sighed. "Winchesters," he muttered, like a complaint, but there was an unmistakable note of fondness and he almost sounded like the more humane person he’d become over the years. "He'll be here soon enough."

Dean started to smile at just the thought, but then he felt a spike of concern. "Not too soon?" He asked, though a selfish part of him was jubilant at the idea that Sam could be on his way here right this second. But, no: Sam had to keep going. 

Cas looked hesitant. "He's not at peace, either, Dean," he said, his tone soothing, like he was trying to console him. "All he wants is to be with you. But he is trying. He’s trying for you."

Dean tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "You can see him?"

Cas hummed, eyes going distant. "Jack doesn't trust the other angels to go to earth yet. I am exempt from that rule, but I don't wish to flaunt it- it would only make things harder for him. So, yes, I keep an eye on Sam from here, as often as I can without intruding on his privacy."

“What’s he been doing?” Dean asked without thinking.

Cas looked back at him with a furrowed brow. “You don’t really want to hear about that, do you?”

Dean almost argued, but then reconsidered. Cas was right. He didn’t want to hear about Sam’s life without him from anyone except Sam himself. “Is he happy?” He asked instead.

This time, Cas visibly hesitated, like he was considering telling a lie. “He is as happy as he ever could be without you,” he said carefully.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s… Good. I guess. Maybe he’ll get better over time. Be really happy.”

Cas didn’t reply to that, just looked away.

This time, the silence between them was comfortable, peaceful. Somehow, Dean wasn’t surprised when Cas stood. “I have to go now,” he said, regretful. “This… This may be the last you see of me, Dean. For a long time.”

“What? Why would-?” He cut himself off, seeing the flash of pain on Cas’ face. “Okay,” he agreed in a mumble. “Okay, Cas, yeah… Take care, man.”

Cas’ answering smile was sad. “You too, Dean.” And with that, he was gone.

Dean took a deep breath. As he got to his feet, he spotted the highway again, Baby parked closer than she had been. As he slid in, he took a second to remember what Cas had said to him, who knew how long ago:  _ The one thing I want is something I know I can’t have. _

It was a fact, Dean knew. Even if he could have ever loved Cas, he would still have loved Sam more. So, no matter how much he missed his friend, maybe saying goodbye for now had been the kindest thing to do.

Dean sighed, shaking his head as he started the car. He had endless roads to travel and a brother to wait for.


	3. The Hours Spent Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I must have stood outside your dorm for hours." - Dean Winchester, 15x20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: angst, pining, jealousy, implied pre-stanford Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess

Dean leaned against the car with a frown, listening to the voicemail from Dad for the nth time. It had been garbled and static-filled in the first place, but at least now, after removing the EVP, he could hear the underlying hiss.

_I can never go home._

He looked down at the printed information on the Jericho case Dad had left for. It looked simple enough: ghost activity was the likeliest option. It really shouldn’t be taking Dad more than a week to wrap it up and yet, Dean hadn’t heard anything from him for almost three weeks, until this voicemail that simply left more questions.

Dean sighed, closing his eyes to envision the US roadmap. It was more than a day’s drive to Jericho, but if he gunned it, he could…

His thoughts stuttered to a halt.

He could swing by Palo Alto. Stanford. _Sammy_.

In the cold wind of New Orleans, Dean suddenly felt the urge to draw his jacket in tighter around himself. The back alley he was parked in was completely deserted and it made him want to yell, if only to see if someone would come running to check. But who would? Where he was right now, nobody cared about Dean Winchester. Only two people ever truly had and one of them was apparently missing while the other one… 

Dean looked at his phone. Hesitantly, he pulled up a number he hadn’t dialled in two years. His thumb hovered over the call-button.

What if Sam didn’t pick up? What if he picked up and refused to help Dean? Did he really want to take that risk? He could go to Jericho alone and handle it himself, why put himself through this? 

The three-letter name on the screen seemed to be glaring at him. _Well?_ The 18 year old little brother of his memory tapped his foot impatiently. _Decide already, man, we’re running out of time._

Dean pocketed the phone. He was going to stop in Palo Alto. Even if Sam just showed him the door, at least Dean could say he’d tried. At least he would be able to just see him. It wouldn’t be enough- god, it’d never be enough- but it’d be something.

The chill in the air seemed a little less as he got behind the wheel, as if the mere thought of Sam could fill him with a warmth in his chest that almost made up for the crushing loneliness. 

It was late evening when he reached. 

As Dean parked the car behind the apartment building, at the back entrance, he felt goosebumps travel up his arms. He shivered once, despite the thick leather jacket. It wasn’t even because of the cold. Dean looked out the window, up at the building. Somewhere on the second floor, there was the boy who’d broken his heart two years ago. Not that Sam would be aware of that, not completely. Dean had made sure of it.

Of course, he’d also promised himself that he’d leave Sam alone, just the way Sam had asked him to- begged, really. And Dean could deal with Sam’s anger, but he was helpless in the face of his pleading.

And now, here he was. Preparing to ask Sam to accompany him on a redundant road trip, if only so Dean didn’t have to be alone.

Dean didn’t let himself think, in case he chickened out, and bounded up the stairs of the apartment building, stopping when he reached the second floor. The first door to his right: Sam's place. 

That's what Dad had told him after his last trip to Stanford. 

Dean swayed on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. He could _knock_. He _should_ knock. 

He knocked. 

A minute passed. 

He tried again. 

No answer. Not even any sounds of inhabitation from inside. 

Dean wanted to smack himself when he realized the door was latched from the outside. A short bark of self-depracating laughter escaped him. He was completely off-balance if he'd failed to notice that. 

Sam wasn't home. He was out. _Okay_. 

Dean slouched back down to the back entrance. Well, alright, then. No point in wasting time dawdling when he didn't even know when Sam would be back. He should get to Jericho now. Dad could be in danger and-

The sound of laughter rang through the air. 

Dean froze, breath sticking in his chest. He wasn't even aware of moving, but his feet carried him to the front of the building. And there he was. _Sammy_. 

Dean leaned heavily against the wall, keeping to the shadows. 

Sam was apparently coming back from a Halloween party, though he wasn't wearing a costume. His two companions were hanging off each other's arms, racously slinging while Sam shook his head at them. 

Dean just stared. Sam had finally stopped growing, taller than him and Dad. The last of his baby fat had melted off, leaving sharp cheekbones and a delicate jaw. His hair hung over his forehead, making him look irresistibly sweet. His shoulders were unmistakably wide under the denim jacket, despite the habitual slouch. He still walked with the same casual awareness that came from hunting and Dean could bet that he had a knife hidden somewhere on his person. But he also looked happy and so at ease that it hurt Dean's heart to watch. 

"You two are idiots, I don't know why I hang out with you," Sam was lamenting. But he was smiling at them, with a fondness that Dean recognized from when it had been for him.

A tiny flare of jealousy burned hot in his stomach. 

"Don't be a buzzkill," the girl in the hot nurse costume said in a sing-song way. She let go of the other guy's elbow, slinging her arms around Sam's neck instead. She kissed him, long and sweet. 

The other guy- a happy third wheel- pretended to gag. 

Dean could relate. The tiny flare grew stronger, pain mixing in with the envy. Dad had not told him about Sam having a girlfriend. Then again, why would he? 

Sam gently grabbed the blonde's face, holding her at a distance so he could look down at her in amusement. His large hands spanned almost her entire head. "Jess, you are so drunk right now," he observed with a fond laugh. 

The girl- Jess- rolled her eyes. "I need to hydrate," she grumbled. "Drunk sex is no fun at all, I can never remember it."

Sam blushed, cheeks flaming red as he closed his eyes. Dean tracked the movement with morbid fascination. 

The third guy laughed, wild and a little unhinged. "That's my cue to leave. Goodnight, ya lovebirds."

Dean felt rooted to the spot as Sam led his girlfriend inside. 

Once they were out of sight, he slunk back to the car. 

The leather of the Impala seats was as comforting as the jacket, maybe even more so. 

Dean stared out the windshield at nothing in particular. A dull stab of homesickness hit him out of nowhere. _Why?_ He wondered. The Impala was the only home he truly knew and he was literally sitting in it. 

Of course, it had one major part missing from the shotgun seat.

Dean had dealt with the absence for four years just fine. He could keep dealing. He didn't actually _need_ Sam to come with him. He could drive away right now. 

He peeked up at the building, at the window that he knew was Sam's. The curtains were drawn but if he focused really hard, he could almost make out the silhouettes walking past it. 

He _should_ drive away. Right now. 

Dusk dwindled away into night. The stars weren't very visible here. Had Sam noticed that, or did he leave star-gazing behind too? The shadows behind the curtain had disappeared completely, the amber lights of a lamp long since switched off. 

Sam was happy, Dean reminded himself. He was content. He was safe. He had the life he'd wanted so bad for so long. 

If Dean were any kind of decent, he'd leave it alone. He'd point the car to Jericho and never come back here. 

But every muscle felt tense, like even his heart had taken over from his brain and was urging his body towards Sam. It was making him restless, making him tap his fingers on the wheel and mess up his hair compulsively. 

He eyed the back entrance. He could break in, he considered. Play it off as a joke, then phrase his request. If he could pull that off, maybe Sam wouldn't realize how many hours Dean had spent second-guessing in the car. They'd been apart long enough that Sam might not be able to read him as easily as he used to. Of course, it would probably work the other way around too.

But what would it matter? If Sam was going to refuse him, then it wouldn't matter how long Dean had waited, or how fast he'd driven to get here, or how afraid he was. 

Afraid, because in his head, every time he tried to envision their conversation, all he could see was Sam's kind gaze turned hateful and mouth set in a sneer. Dean wasn't strong enough to face that. 

With a burst of manic stubbornness, Dean dug out his phone again and dialled Dad's number. If he picked up, Dean would hightail it out of here. And if he didn't pick up, Dean would face Sam. 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. 

Dean hated himself for wishing _Please don't answer now._

He reached voice mail. 

Triumph, fear, excitement- Dean swallowed back his nausea and prepared for his entry. 


	4. Rip It Out, Scrub It Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sir Galahad- he was kneeling. There was light streaming over his face. And I remember thinking... That I could never go on a quest like that." - Sam Winchester, 8x21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: slight angst, mild fluff, John & Sam, pre-series.

It was late when John came back from the library. Hoping the roar of the Impala hadn’t woken his boys, he crept into the room as quietly as he could. In the back of his mind, underneath the thoughts of lore and black dogs and silver blades, he wondered if it was time to teach Dean to handle guns and keep lookout.

He firmly ignored the pang of guilt he felt. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking  _ I’m so sorry. _ It was practically reflex at this point.

It took him a few seconds, exhausted as he was, to notice that the lamp between the beds was switched on. The amber light cast shadows on Dean, who’d fallen asleep with the covers pulled over him, all the way to his chin, one arm extended towards Sam even now.

Sammy, however, was awake, cross-legged next to Dean’s sleeping form and staring up at John with wide eyes. 

“Shh,” the 5 year old hissed softly, one clumsy finger pressing to his lips. “De’s sleeping. Reading makes him tired.”

John smiled tiredly. With a solemn nod and finger to his own lips, he stepped further inside the room, shedding his jacket and tossing the keys onto the table. “Why aren’t you sleeping too?” He whispered.

Sammy shrugged. “Now I am reading,” he stated, too self-assured for any toddler, and pointed to the book propped open on Dean’s stomach. It was a new one; Bobby must have slipped it into one of their bags before parting.

John couldn’t help a rush of fondness at how gently Sam turned the page of his book, careful not to brush against Dean and disturb him in any way. So young, but already attuned to his brother, already able to gauge his moods and already trying to take care of him. Dean had always been protective of Sammy, but after the shtriga incident, he’d grown almost paranoid. And somehow, Sam had picked up on it and reciprocated, even though he couldn’t possibly understand it.

Lost in his own head as he lay down on the other bed, he startled when Sam made a sudden noise, muted and confused.

Immediately, he was alert, body poised to defend. “Sammy?”

Sam looked okay, only his small face scrunched up as he looked up from the book to John. “What is he doing?”

John blinked. “What?”

“What he’s doing. I can’t do it.”

John sighed. For a moment, he considered telling Sam to put the book away and go to sleep. But Sam had the memory of an elephant and he’d never let it go. So, with another deep sigh at the stiffness of his back from poring over library records, he got up to sit on the edge of the boys’ bed, careful not to jostle Dean too much. 

“Okay, what are you talking about, Sammy?”

The page Sam was looking at had a cartoon picture. There was a medieval knight, kneeling with his sword in his hand, and light shining on his face. A quick look at the cover page showed the title  _ Knights of the Round Table. _

“That’s Sir Galahad,” John explained, skimming over the words quickly. “He was one of the three bravest knights, who went on a quest to find the treasure.” That was probably a gross simplification.

Sam frowned. Almost absently, he scratched at his arms. “Dean says you go on quests too.”

John stole a glance at Dean’s unwitting form. Trust his oldest to venerate him to knighthood. “That’s different, kiddo.”

Sam nodded, like he understood. “I wanna go on quests too.”

John smoothed his palm down Sam’s unruly curls. “You can. When you’re older.”

Sam looked up at him and, eyes misty and distant, shook his head. “I can’t. ‘M not clean, dad.”

John opened his mouth to ask what he meant. Then the sadness in Sam’s words struck him and his stomach clenched. “What do you mean?” He asked anyway, but more serious than he’d planned to.

Sam scratched at his arms again, then held them out as if for inspection. “I feel dirty. ‘M not clean.” There was frustration in his tone now. “Ya have to be clean to go on quests.” He swallowed. “Dad, I don’t feel clean,” he repeated, bottom lip quivering in a pout.

John grabbed Sam’s wrists, then loosened his grip when Sam winced. “You’re not dirty at all,” he said slowly. “You’re clean. You insist on showering almost three times a day when you can get away with it.” Somehow, he knew that wasn’t what Sam meant, but what else did one say? “You’re clean, Sammy. Why would you think like that?”

Sam didn’t answer, just stared at him, almost blank, except for the glimmer of intelligence in his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered. Without waiting for a response, he closed the book and put it on the bedside table. With a yawn that may or may not have been fake, he switched the lamp off, crawling under the sheets, adjusting it again so Dean was still completely covered. “Okay, dad,” he said again, a mumble now.

_ Okay, dad- _ the two words haunted John’s dreams that night, along with the almost frightening intensity of his son’s gaze, and he wondered if Sam had only said it to appease him.

_ (Sam doesn’t sleep that night. Every inch of his skin is tingling and when he thinks of Sir Galahad, his mouth tastes bitter. But he can’t say it outloud, can’t explain it, because he doesn’t like the way dad looks at him sometimes. So he tries to stop thinking and lets his brother’s breathing lull him to peace.) _


	5. Echoes Of Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's things that need to be aired out between them if they want to keep working together. Otherwise... They'll just end up tearing themselves apart even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: post Episode: #THINMAN, voicemail fix-it, mentions of Gadreel, angst, gen, emotional H/C

After they dropped off Harry at a Greyhound station, Sam finally gave voice to what he’d been wanting to say ever since watching the remnants of the Ghostfacers fall apart. He had to, because if they didn't talk this out soon, they'd end up tearing each other apart even more.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Dean’s hands flexed once around the steering wheel, but otherwise he remained still.

“You don’t get it.”

“What else do you want me to get?” Dean’s words were clipped. “You didn’t want me to save you. And you wouldn’t save me. Case closed.”

Sam grit his teeth, feeling the sudden urge to put Dean’s head through the window, despite initially wanting a calm conversation. “You’re a fucking moron, you know that?” He said through grit teeth. A part of him knew it was his own fault- he shouldn’t have said what he said, should have made it clearer. But he’d wanted- in short bursts of anger that momentarily overtook the pain of betrayal- to hurt Dean back. “After everything we’ve been through, you really believe that I wouldn’t save you?”

“Sam, I believe pretty much everything you ever tell me,” Dean snapped.

Sam took a deep breath, refusing to acknowledge the truth or the lie in that statement. “I’d save you,” he said in a tight voice. “I’d try to save you, but I damn well wouldn't sacrifice your freedom or your sanity for it. Because you know what? I’d rather you die on your own terms than have just parts of yourself, or worse: your skin with somebody else calling the shots.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Dean finally raised his voice again. “You were dying. I was watching you die and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have let me go!” Sam insisted. “You should have let me go, Dean, then we wouldn’t be-”

“No, I couldn’t!” Dean yelled. Without warning, he pulled over, stopping the car at the side of the highway and getting out.

Sam followed, slamming the door in a way he never would otherwise. 

“We’ve been over this part too many times. I couldn’t do it the first time, I couldn’t do it the second time, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to do it this time either.” Dean’s eyes were almost black in the darkness, fixed on Sam with righteous rage. “And where the hell do _you_ get off on lecturing me on the right way to bring someone back, huh, Sammy? Or did you forget what you did when I was in Hell?”

Sam felt his own fury flare higher. “To _myself_ ,” he pointed out icily. “Whatever I did, I did it to _myself_. Not to _you_.” A sudden thought occurred to him and it made him laugh, sharp and caustic. “God, Dean, you probably would have fed me demon blood if it meant saving me, wouldn’t you?”

To his surprise, Dean’s face went white. “What?” He croaked. “Wh- no. No, I wouldn’t-”

“Why not?” Sam challenged. “Because it’s evil? But so’s Gadreel.” He shook his head at Dean’s pinched expression. “And you know what?” He said softly. “The demon blood was better than this. Because at least, that was my choice. At least I knew what it was going to do to me, I knew it was turning me into more of a freak. I was prepared for it.”

For a long time, they stood there, chests heaving, six feet apart, not looking at each other. At some point during the drive, it had started to rain without them noticing. They were drenched and there was no way they’d make it back to the bunker without either stopping for the night or catching their deaths.

“You promised me, in that church,” Sam said in an almost whisper. “That it was going to be you and me, always. That you’d never put anything before me.” An old, familiar guilt wracked through him- that feeling that he wasn’t worth Dean’s attention or love. He powered through it, through the knee-jerk reaction of putting his own problems on the backburner in favour of fixing someone else’s, fixing Dean’s. “How does that equate to you taking away my choice? Or lying to me, over and over, even when you could see how I thought I was going crazy?”

Dean didn’t answer. He just looked up at the sky, closing his eyes to the raindrops. Lightning flashed, illuminating his features, and Sam hated himself for flinching at how the brightness looked almost like the glow of an angel’s Grace.

“Should be a motel somewhere around,” Dean said listlessly. He got into the car.

Sam stood where he was for a few seconds more, then got in too. They weren’t going to get through this, he despaired. Not without another drastic occurrence to push them back together.

* * *

It wasn’t until they’d each showered and were ready to turn in for the night (or lay awake staring at the ceiling and listening to each other breathe), that Dean finally decided to just come out and say what he wanted. If talking things out the way Sam always wanted to could fix this gaping distance between them, then so be it.

He tried to come up with a good way to start, an opening sentence that wouldn’t result in another shouting match. But as he watched the way Sam tensed under his stare- like he was afraid, afraid of _Dean_ \- he lost his train of careful thoughts.

“I’m not the only one who broke a promise.” He winced at himself; he hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

Sure enough, Sam only stiffened further. “What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean should have let it go, left it that. But he soldiered on. "You promised me you'd live," he reminded. "Back when you ganked the hellhound. You promised you'd make it through the trials alive.  _ Light at the end of the tunnel,  _ that's what you said to me." His voice broke and he realized he was shaking. "What was that light, Sammy? Heaven? Hellfire? Or was that whole speech just a pile of crap?”

“I meant it,” Sam snapped. “I wanted that, for us.”

“Then what the hell changed?” Dean threw his hands. “What happened between then and the church that you were raring to kill yourself?”

Sam stared at him, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I didn’t _want_ to kill myself, Dean,” he said, slowly, like Dean was five. “I wanted to finish the job.”

“Since when is the job more important than-?” He stuttered to a stop, more than a little surprised at his own thoughts. But it was true, wasn’t it? He loved hunting, loved saving people, but if Sam ever got injured too badly to keep up, if he pleaded hard enough, maybe even if he just asked… Dean would leave it behind for him. He'd chosen hunting over Sam once before and he'd hated every single second of those four years. And he’d die for Sam, he knew he would, had done so before. But he’d live for Sam too. Fuck, that was the only thought that had kept him fighting through Purgatory, that Sam would be grieving him, would be waiting for him, would be so damn pissed if he ever found out that Dean had given up and let himself get eaten by any one of an infinite variety of monsters. “Since when is the job more important than us sticking together?” He asked quietly.

Sam's brow furrowed, lips turning down at the corner as he looked down at the floor. “It wasn’t _just_ the job, Dean,” he said, just as quietly.

“Then what?” Dean had the sudden urge to tear his own hair out.

Sam shook his head. “I just… I wanted…” He huffed out a frustrated breath, jaw clenching like had to work to get the words out.

When had that happened? Dean wondered. When had Sam, of all people, lost the ability to tell Dean how he felt about something? Was that Dean’s fault too?

Finally, Sam sighed, shoulders slumping, and, without warning, he looked like a kid, twelve years old and shying away from a world he’d never felt- or been- safe in. He looked defeated. “I just wanted to make you proud of me again,” he said, so soft that it was almost a whisper. “Everything I’ve ever done, for the last-” a brief pause. “-for the last four years was just so you’d look at me like you used to before, back when demons were one-in-a-million and we didn’t know angels were real.”

Dean’s chest felt tight. “Why would you think that?” His voice was a croak. “Why would- I am proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you. Sammy…” The words felt like they were burning his tongue- not because they were false, but because they were truths that should have been spoken out loud so long ago.

Sam let out a laugh- bleak and humorless. “Kinda hard to believe since you threatened to kill me that one time.” The words were like a thunderclap and Sam’s eyes widened, hand half-raised to his mouth, like he hadn't meant to say that, like he wanted to swallow it back.

Dean felt faint, swaying on the spot. “What?” Was all he could say.

Sam shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t… I deserved that one, okay, I know I did, I was completely out of line, and-”

“What? What are you-?”

“I kickstarted the Apocalypse,” Sam said. All his earlier ire was gone, replaced by marrow-deep regret and grief. “I was surprised when you didn’t go through with it. Hell, I considered doing it myself except Lucifer said he would keep bringing me back and I-”

“SAM!” Dean yelled.

He flinched.

Dean’s mouth tasted like ash. “What are you talking about?” He demanded.

Sam frowned. “Before… I let Lucifer out…” He cocked his head to the side like a cat. “You sent me a voicemail. You don’t…” All of a sudden, he looked heartbroken. “You don’t remember?”

Dean did remember. He remembered pacing in the Beautiful Room, trapped by the angels and heart trapped behind his ribs, every fibre of him aching to get to his little brother. He remembered calling Sam and leaving a voicemail, apologizing, reassuring, hoping.

He couldn’t fathom wanting to kill Sam, not of his own accord, at least, when he was himself and not possessed or influenced by a third party.

Before he could say that, Sam was digging his phone out, studiously not looking up as he tapped his screen a few times, then tossed it to Dean.

Dean caught it on instinct. And then his own voice, cruel and dark, filled the room. “ _ Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warning: I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam- a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.” _

Silence covered the room like a plastic sheet- stuffy, suffocating. Dean struggled to get air into his lungs and Sam, across the room, looked like he wanted to run away.

Dean dropped the phone on the bed with shaking fingers. “That’s not me,” he mumbled, rubbing an unsteady hand over his mouth. “That’s not me. That wasn't-”

Sam shook his head. “Please, Dean, don’t-” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore, okay?”

“No. _Yes_ , it does, of course it fucking matters.” Dean stared at Sam, suddenly feeling very small. “I did leave a voicemail. But it wasn’t that, okay? It was just… I was just apologizing, asking you to call me…” The distance between them felt too big and he closed it, heart aching when Sam visibly braced himself. “You gotta believe that, Sammy, come on. I’d never…”

Sam looked at him warily. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” Dean stressed. “It wasn’t- maybe the angels, man- or Ruby, or any other demon- we’ll call Cas, if you want, he’ll know- maybe it was Zachariah-”

“I almost didn’t go through with it,” Sam interrupted, blank from confusion. “That night- I almost couldn’t. But then I heard you… I heard _that_ , and I thought, that maybe if I killed Lilith, you’d forgive me. Or even if you didn’t… I figured I’d be dead, wouldn’t have to find out either way.”

Dean swallowed, taking a deep breath. Anger at the universe for ever putting them in this situation, regret, hurt, heartbreak… Slowly, he reached up to cup Sam’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. “I begged you to stop, in that church,” he told him. “And I knew you’d be pissed at me for stuffing an angel into you without telling you. And you’re right, okay? It _was_ selfish.” His hand slipped down his neck, resting on his chest, feeling Sam’s heart beating strongly. “It was _always_ selfish. Because I couldn’t- no.” He shook his head, beating back the instinct to keep his feelings close to his chest. This was Sammy, and Dean needed him too much to pretend. “I didn’t _want_ to live without you. And I never will. And if you really believed, for even a second, that I would want you dead… Then I haven’t been doing a great job being your brother.” He let his hands drop and took a small step back. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Sammy, I am. But I can’t regret what I did, not when it kept you alive and breathing. I can’t regret it and I’m sorry for that too.”

Sam closed his eyes, turning away a little. He ran a hand through his hair, slumped like all the fight had gone out of him, like he was finally defeated. “I can’t just forget it,” he managed to say, voice a croak. “Not easily. And I… I don’t know how long it’ll take me to trust you that same way.”

Dean nodded frantically, then realized that Sam couldn’t see him. “Okay. Okay, that’s fair, Sam, that… Just don’t leave me.” The words left without his permission, but he didn’t take them back. “Don’t leave me,” he repeated, wondering if he looked or sounded as scared as he felt, scared that this was it, the final straw, this was when Sam left him. “Please."

Sam looked back at him. His eyes were wet with tears, but he reached out, fingers trailing over Dean’s wrist. “Stay with me this time,” he requested and Dean abruptly remembered that he’d been the one to leave last time, had walked away from Sam in the rain because he couldn’t truly understand what the problem was. he understood now.

So he turned his hand, gripping Sam’s fingers tight enough that it had to be hurting a bit. Sam gripped back and didn’t let go.


	6. Last Man Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt in Austin.

_Werewolves_ , Sam thought dimly, as claws raked down his cheek. It was mildly ironic. Dean got ki- Dean was dea- Dean’s last hunt had been vamps. And Sam’s was going to be werewolves.

Fitting.

Two of them were already lying dead. Donna was fighting the third one in the other room and Sam just knew that she was going to win. So, really it was okay if this one killed Sam. Donna would take care of it, he knew.

So he let himself be pushed back against the wall, the wolf’s heavy scent of wet fur cloying his nostrils and making it hard to breathe. He let his eyes slip close. He could hear the growls that were just a little too human,the harsh panting, and then claws were digging into his chest. 

Sam’s hand nudged against something on the floor and, recognizing his silver blade, his fingers closed around it instinctively. But he ignored it otherwise. And let himself feel the agonizing pain of his skin being torn through, too close to the heart for anything but death. His breath came faster, but no other sound escaped him. Pain was an old friend, anyway. And he had no wish to endure it for the rest of his life. Not without… Just, no. He couldn’t.

_ “You have to promise me!”  _ Dean’s face burst into mind, features contorted in rage rather than the soft affection it had been when the words had actually been spoken.  _ “You have to keep living, keep fighting. Sam…” _

There was an anguished cry, breaking through the werewolf’s din, and then Sam swung the blade up, jamming it into the wolf’s neck and throwing it off.

For a few long moments, Sam sat trembling, staring at the dead creature, arm half-raised and the blade dripping blood onto his jeans.

There was something lodged in his chest, something beyond the pierced skin and bruised ribs. Something that was making it difficult to breathe, made his eyes water but wouldn’t allow him the release of tears.

There was the sound of footsteps and Donna appeared in his vision. There was a shallow scratch on her arm, the bleeding already stemmed. Her hair was in a disarray and she was carrying her gun, which she slowly set aside as she kneeled next to him.

“Heya, Sam,” she said, her sweet voice soothing as she reached out to hold his shoulder. “Are you…?” She didn’t finish the question. She already knew what had happened and understood that there was no point in asking him that.

Sam was grateful for that, and he wanted to thank her, but the thing in his chest wouldn’t let him talk either.

Donna sighed, shifting to sit beside him. She slipped the knife from his fingers, forcefully lowered his arm. “Need to talk?” She asked, and there was a thickness to her voice that suggested she was close to tears as well.

Sam shuddered, shaking his head. She simply nodded, holding his hand, interlinking their fingers. Sam squeezed back, probably hard enough that it hurt her. She didn’t say a word though.

Sam found the silence suffocating and yet, there was nothing for him to say.


	7. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No matter what I do, you die. And then I wake up. And then it's Tuesday again." - Sam (3x11)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags: angst, death, suicide TW

Dean quietly reached over to the radio between the beds, clicking it on. Heat Of The Moment blasted from the speakers, loud and obnoxiously preppy as Sam jolted upright with a gasp.

Dean laughed. “Rise and shine, Sammy,” he announced, grinning.

Sam looked dazed. “Asia?” He mumbled, a half-whisper that sounded defeated.

Dean snickered. “Come on, you know you love it,” he admonished and started mouthing the words exaggeratedly, pretending to serenade his brother.

Sam’s mouth did something weird, like a cross between a forced smile and a grimace of pain. As Dean gave up- obviously Sam had woken up with a larger stick than usual up his ass- and got off the bed, he was halted by Sam leaning across the bed and grabbing him.

Dean stopped, stared down at the long fingers clamped around his wrist, then at Sam. “Dude,” he started to say, then frowned. “Sam? You okay?”

Sam stared at the point of contact too. Then he let go. “Will you do me a favour?” He asked slowly.

Dean blinked. “Uh…”

“There’s a newspaper stand in the reception,” Sam went on, not looking at Dean. “Bring one back for me, will you? But don’t take the stairs at the front of the hall, okay? Take the emergency doors.”

Dean wondered if Sam had finally cracked under the pressure he’d been putting on himself to save his older brother. But when his lack of answer made Sam look up at him, all Dean could see there was a calm sort of resolve.

“Please, Dean,” Sam requested. “Just… Do it. Exactly as I said.”

Dean found himself nodding, worried, but willing to indulge Sam until he told Dean what was wrong. He took the emergency exit, with a furtive glance around to make sure no one had seen him. He walked up to the reception, throwing a half-hearted wink to the girl at the desk as he picked out one of the papers.

A muffled bang reached his ears.

Dean froze.

The girl at the desk jumped a little, then laughed. “Probably just a car backfiring.”

Dean wanted to tell her that she was wrong. That it was the sound of a gunshot. And that it had come from upstairs, not the parking lot.

But he couldn’t say any of this, because his heart was in his mouth as he bounded back up the stairs, down the stupidly long hallways, skidding to their room and kicking the door open because he hadn’t brought the keys and he didn’t have the patience to knock and… 

Sam was lying on the bed. His eyes closed, his face relaxed. One hand was folded over his stomach. He could have been asleep.

For a long moment, the gun in Sam’s other hand and the crimson splattered everywhere didn’t register. All he could do was walk over to the bedside, only half-aware of falling to his knees on the carpet.

_ Just a nightmare _ , he told himself.  _ I’m going to wake up. Any second now. _

Except the watch on his wrist kept ticking by and the smell of blood hit.

“Sam,” Dean whispered. “Sammy?” He didn’t get an answer and, before he could stop himself, he was reaching out, touching his fingertips to the smooth line of Sam’s jaw. 

His skin was warm. Spotted with red.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there- it could have been seconds, could have been hours.

Mind empty of any thoughts, except the weird feeling that there was no air getting to his lungs, Dean slid his hand over to Sam’s, easing the Taurus out of his grip. Very carefully, with the thoughtlessness of long practice, he took aim, angling the muzzle just right.

There was the sound of footsteps, then a shocked gasp and a scream.

Dean squeezed the trigger with his eyes fixed on his brother.

* * *

Dean quietly reached over to the radio between the beds, clicking it on. Heat Of The Moment blasted from the speakers, loud and obnoxiously preppy as Sam jolted upright with a gasp.

Dean laughed. “Rise and shine, Sammy,” he announced, grinning.

Sam stared at him. And stared. Stared some more. Then kept on staring.

Dean frowned, turning the volume down. “What’s wrong?”

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes and turning his face away, like it hurt him to look at Dean. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize, I didn’t think you would, I just-” He broke off, with a noise of frustration. “I couldn’t think of what else to do,” he said, so softly that Dean couldn’t be sure he heard right.

But the half-sob that escaped him was unmistakable and Dean went to sit beside him, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Talk to me, Sam. What’s wrong?”

Sam took several deep breaths. When he looked back at Dean, he seemed exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry I don’t know how to save you.”

_ Oh _ , Dean thought. Guilt plucked at his heartstrings, accompanied by the knowledge that he still wouldn’t take any of his actions back. But this wasn’t the time to tell Sam that, not when he’d evidently just woken from a nightmare.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he mumbled, jostling him a little. “You’ll figure something out. You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: kassyscarlett
> 
> I am taking requests for this, so if anyone has a scene they'd like to see, please send me an ask on Tumblr.


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